Quantum Sufficiat
by akg.writes
Summary: You do what you need to do... to do what needs to be done.


TITLE: Quantum Sufficiat (WIP)

AUTHOR: akg.writes

AUTHOR'S NOTES: 1) My biggest problem with the scenario in Pathways was that Paris was  
a cadet at the time of the accident. While a concise way to give Paris time to become jaded in the  
'real world' following expulsion, it was also wholly unsubstantiated by canonical data. Having  
said that, I did use a few details from Jeri Taylor's books (both Mosaic and Pathways).

DISCLAIMER: Star Trek: Voyager is the property of Paramount. No infringement intended.

SUMMARY: She surprised him though when she murmured, "Quantum sufficiat."

Tom stopped in his tracks then. His Latin was rusty, almost unforgivably so given his  
family's insistence that he study it, but he turned slowly around, translating, "Quantum sufficiat...  
as much as may suffice." He cocked his head to one side, silent inviting her to explain.

She didn't appear to be particularly impressed with his rather rare ability. He had a feeling  
he could fly to Ferenginar, turn off the Universal Translator, and finagle a thousand bars of  
latinum from the Grand Nagus himself and still not impress her.

"That's your first lesson, Cadet," was all she said as she brushed past him. "You do what  
you need to do... to do what needs to be done."

"What the hell is that?"

It was the most dangerously beautiful thing Tom Paris had ever seen. The bands of vivid  
colors, swirling together and apart in what appeared to be an intricately choreographed routine...  
the brilliant flashes that illuminated for an all too brief moment the ephemeral patterns in the  
Storm's power in an illusory mimicry of the relative mildness of Terran lightning storms... the  
fleeting forms in the variegated masses of color, boiling in the yawning silence of space with a  
barely leashed fury... It was the most dangerously beautiful thing he had ever seen.

///"It's so beautiful," he whispered, awed by the majesty unfolding before him.///

///"It's dangerous." Her voice was clipped, professional, as she prepared for the  
crossing.///

///"I've never seen anything like it before."///

///She smiled at him then, oh so faintly, as if she were remembering her own first  
experience with the Storm three years earlier. "And you never will again, Tom."///

Now, ten years later, he was confronted with another Storm, finally proving her wrong if  
only on that tiny point. But there was no time to enjoy it. There might not even be enough time  
to save the ship.

He acted before Harry Kim could offer the Captain his meaningless sensor readings. They  
were no doubt gibberish, a direct result of the distortions emitted from the body of color and Kim,  
brilliant though he was, would not even recognize the readings as gibberish. No officer with only  
standard Starfleet training would. And though Paris was a little rusty in deciphering the true  
meanings of the otherwise muddled data flowing freely across his console, he got enough of it on  
the initial read-through to understand that there was no time to bother with technicalities: the  
warp field would destabilize, impulse wouldn't be fast enough... and that only left one option.

"All stop. Rerouting shield control through the helm," he announced, tapping in the  
appropriate controls and imagining the look on the Captain's face as she reacted to his breach of  
protocol. "Shields up. Standard shield modulation suspended."

"Mr. Paris-" the Captain began. She sounded more wary than displeased, as if she were  
more upset by her own confusion than by Paris's flagrant disregard for protocol. Paris hoped it  
was the former because there was simply no time for him to condense five years of specialized  
training into the mere minutes he had to save the ship.

"Harry, I need a point zero four second anti-proton burst ninety meters off the forward  
hull followed exactly one second later by seven-hundred-fifty ppm dilithium gas in a compressed  
two-second stream. Use plasma from the injectors as a base if you can... unrefined deuterium  
from the ramscoops could work in a pinch. Bump it up to a thousand ppm if you use the  
deuterium."

"Dilithium gas?" Chakotay repeated. Paris could picture the expression of perplexity on  
the first officer's face, but taking his eyes off his console long enough to appreciate it was simply  
not an option.

He continued on, praying that Harry would do it. It had been years since he had done a  
Storm modification and many more since he'd been forced to attempt an emergency one... and  
even then he'd never done it on an unprepared vessel with an equally unprepared group of people.  
But it was a skill he would never lose; Craven had made sure of that much. There had been a  
time, long ago, when Paris was less Tom and more the only pilot ever to single-handedly make a  
Storm modification and survive... repeatedly. Ten years, though, was long enough to slow him  
down and he knew he would never be able to finish the modification alone. Even if he could, he  
would never try it. Not again. Never again.

///"God dammit, Phoenix, you don't have enough time!"///

///"Shut up, Nike, I know what the fuck I'm doing here."///

///"There's not enough time! You're going to have to jump to warp."///

///"Yeah, and where would that have gotten us four years ago?"///

///"That was then, this is now! If you don't jump to warp we're not going to make it over  
the threshold! God dammit, give me back the helm!"///

"You heard him, Harry," the Captain snapped. "Do it."

Paris filed away that evidence of her faith in him so that he could bask in it later.  
"Tuvok," he called out, half his brain occupied with sifting through the gibberish his console was  
sending him in an attempt to decipher the true data on the colorful mass that loomed across the  
viewscreen, "as soon as Harry releases the dilithium gas, you're going to see something your  
sensors tell you is a wormhole... a neutrino surge, resonance waves, whatever. I need you to  
target the very center of it with a photon torpedo. You need to detonate the torpedo within five  
meters of the wormhole's opening. Don't miss." He was long out of practice on translating the  
havoc Storms created in sensor readings, but it was coming back. He only hoped it came back  
fast enough to save Voyager. It might come down to the simple response time of the ship - and  
if it did, the feisty girl's bioneural circuitry might be her savior. Might be. Her circuitry was  
worth nothing if her pilot gave her the wrong commands.

"A photon torpedo will collapse a wormhole," Chakotay pointed out.

Paris blew a frustrated stream of air through pursed lips. Time was running out - he didn't  
need to translate another data stream to know that; he knew it instinctively, could feel the  
mounting tension in the rolling bands of color. For everything it had cost him, five years working  
with the Storm had granted him at least that much. "It's not a wormhole," he snapped angrily.  
"Just do it, there's no time to discuss it."

"Do it," the Captain barked when apparently Tuvok did not react to Paris's command  
quickly enough, then repeated Paris's own words, "And don't miss."

"Computer, disengage Red Alert protocols."

"Deactivation of Red Alert protocols requires a Level One-"

Paris should have known better than to try and disengage the system himself, but the  
Captain didn't wait for him to ask her to do her part. "Computer, disengage Red Alert protocols,  
authorization Janeway-omega-three."

"Red Alert protocols deactivated."

"Anti-protons... and dilithium gas are away," Kim said.

"I've got a concentration of neutrinos at bearing zero-two-four mark three-five,"  
Chakotay added.

A moment later, Tuvok said, "Torpedo away, detonation in two seconds."

"Shields down," said Paris, not unaware of the Captain's sharp intake of breath at such an  
announcement. He should worry about her reaction to what she no doubt perceived as his casual  
disregard for the sanctity of her ship, but he just couldn't afford to. Not now...

Timing... timing... He had to concentrate. He would have a second, maybe two, after the  
torpedo's detonation to translate the data stream and decide on a heading and speed... Gods help  
him, he couldn't screw this up...

///"Stand down, Phoenix."///

///"We go to warp and our hull won't be able to take the stress of the threshold, Nike!  
Where the fuck were you in Basics?"///

///"Listen to me, god dammit! Your torpedo missed... it's a fractional  
threshold. If we don't hit it at warp, we'll never make it through."///

///"If I listened to you four years ago, we'd be fucking dead. I know what the hell I'm  
doing."///

///"Four years ago it was incomplete shunting of the plasma into the dilithium gas! You  
were right to go to impulse then. But you're not now. Stand down!"///

///"Incomplete threshold either way. Can't stand to see your charity case right, huh Nike?  
Jumping to impulse."///

///"Tom!"///

As the viewscreen exploded in a brilliant, blinding white... as he heard the Captain,  
stunned by the unanticipated brilliance of the display, stagger back and stumble either into her  
chair or onto the carpet... as warning sirens screamed through the bridge... as Harry Kim shouted  
of a warp core breach and Tuvok reported that the structural integrity of the primary hull had  
been compromised... he announced, surprised by the cool confidence in his own voice, "Jumping  
to impulse" immediately followed by "All stop" a second later.

///He felt the Runner shudder beneath him, shaking with an unanticipated force so  
powerful that it was all he could do not to get thrown from the helm.///

///He felt his own body shudder in sync with the Runner, the craft's distress translating  
itself to his own.///

///He heard a terrible scream that could have been the aft section of the Runner being  
sheared away by the incredible strength of the Storm...///

///...or it could have been Nike, shrieking her own banshee song as the Storm swirled  
around her, searing her flesh into a gruesome mottled mess as it brushed over her body...///

///... or it could have been his own cry of fear and agony as the Storm overcame him, as he  
fought back the imminent destruction of his own burning flesh to pull the Runner out...///

And then all was silent. The blinding blaze of sensory overload faded from the  
viewscreen, leaving the bridge under normal lighting which seemed almost dreary by comparison.  
The screaming warning klaxons on the Ops and Tactical stations fell silent.

And Tom Paris closed his eyes and remembered how to breathe.

A heartbeat passed.

"Warp core integrity, Mr. Kim?" The Captain sounded hoarse.

"Normal, Captain," came the somewhat bewildered answer.

"The hull, Tuvok?" Chakotay didn't sound much better.

"Wholly intact, Commander. It would appear the sensors malfunctioned."

"Position?"

"We are... we're inside the... thing." Paris heard Kim clear his throat, chagrined at his  
inability to come up with a more descriptive label.

"Status?"

"All systems functioning normally, Captain," Tuvok assured her.

"Computer, reactivate standard Red Alert protocols authorization Janeway-omega-three."

"Red Alert protocols reactivated."

There was a long moment of silence following the computer's announcement.

Paris was too busy enjoying the sensation of air in his lungs, to busy letting the sounds of a  
functioning bridge wash over him, to busy realizing that this time the people depending on him  
were alive, to notice the Captain's approach. She was stealthy to begin with. Distracted as he  
was, he didn't stand a chance.

When her hand brushed his shoulder, he jumped high enough to slam his knees up against  
the underside of the helm. She watched him grimace and rub the abused joints, no doubt waiting  
patiently for his full attention. He feared that she could see the shaking of his hands, that she  
might guess the exact nature of what had just happened. She was a Captain, after all - she would  
know about the Regiment in principle, if not in detail. And she was Owen Paris's handpicked  
student and possibly even lover - she would know what the Regiment had meant to him, would  
know what it had done to his son.

"Mr. Paris," she began softly, her words for his ears only, "if you just did what I think you  
just did, congratulations are in order."

He couldn't bring himself to set her straight. Not when she was looking at him so  
earnestly. So he looked away and nodded once.

She stared at him for a moment longer, studying him so blatantly that he was tempted to  
jump to attention. "Are you still bound to secrecy?" she asked abruptly.

She didn't add "since the accident", but Paris heard it anyway. He didn't look at her.  
"There's no formal mandate requiring confidentiality," he informed her quietly. "Not to you,  
anyway." He shrugged then, a forced gesture that seemed far more strained than nonchalant.  
"And I suppose the fact that we encountered a Storm at all outside of the Colonis system would  
seem to annul any of the customary secrecy the Regiment generally... encourages."

She nodded slowly, then turned away from him, speaking loudly enough to include the  
rest of the bridge. "Senior staff briefing in twenty minutes. I'll expect a full report then, Mr.  
Paris."

He coughed. "How full, Captain?" he asked her quietly, hoping his dread wasn't as  
audible to her as it was to him.

She turned back to him, scrutinizing him for a long moment. "The Regiment. Your  
training. Your accomplishments." She paused, then added in the muted tone she had used  
previously, "We will not require information from your... last year in the Regiment."

His relief must have flooded his face for a gentle smile tugged at her lips as she spoke  
again. "I look forward to your presentation, Mr. Paris," she murmured softly into his ear. "It's  
not every day that a mere captain gets the inside scoop on the Phantom Regiment."

Tuesdays were the bane of Tom Paris' existence.

The day started at oh-five-hundred - a mere two hours after he had finished in the flight  
simulators... God only knew the only time a fourth-class could requisition the sims was for a god-  
awful time slot with the name 'Paris' signed on the requisition form - with the weekly campus run  
to which all fourth-class cadets were traditionally subjected. Tom was in great shape - he had to  
be if he wanted to make any of the Academy teams his father had suggested - and he tended to  
finish the run ahead of most of his classmates... except for that damned, eight-foot gargantuan of  
a Vulcan, of course, who seemed to finish in three strides. Then again, all fourth-classes had  
learned extremely quickly not to challenge Sorik to a footrace... just as they had learned not to try  
a line on the resident hottie Alice Bautista or to challenge Rika Necheyev to ambo-jyutsu. Still, in  
any case, Tom generally finished with above average times and was usually in the shower by oh-  
six-fifteen.

And that of course left him forty-five minutes to finish his shower, shine his boots, make  
his bed - and Admiral Lucin, crotchety old coot that she was, had decided that Tom, apparently  
because of his seeming inability to create completely parallel lines in his linens, was destined to be  
a troublemaker... and she made a point to inform Tom's paternal aunt, the Admiral Ellen Hollin,  
of such during their weekly canasta sessions - walk to the Mess Hall, eat whatever swill they were  
serving, and then walk the kilometer to the lecture hall where his first morning lecture was held.

He hated that class. Introduction to Propulsion and Navigation with Doctor Mendok.  
Tom could teach the damned class in a coma and pass it on half life support. He generally spent  
half of the two-hour lecture wondering who exactly Mendok, a renowned warp theorist from the  
Benzite Academy, had pissed off to get stuck teaching an introductory-level course. The other  
half of the lecture was usually spent wondering why he himself had to suffer through taking such a  
class. He had more than adequately demonstrated his abilities in propulsion and navigational  
theory with his Academy entrance project... which just happened to be an overhaul of current  
navigational systems so intricately well thought-out and yet so perplexingly creative that it had  
sent the faculty reeling. But even as the normally integrated College of Flight was torn apart as its  
two biggest departments, the School of Theoretical Flight and the School of Applicative  
Propulsion and Navigation, engaged in a rather heated debate over the future of one Cadet  
Fourth-Class Thomas Eugene Paris... even as both theoretical- and applicative-minded Flight  
faculty members - as well as those less decorated members of the general faculty who could use  
Owen Paris as an ally - clambered over one another to become young Tom Paris's faculty  
sponsor... Tom Paris himself was informed in no uncertain terms by the fourth-class faculty  
advisor that he had to satisfy his propulsion and navigation theory requirement in an entry-level  
theory class. Period.

And so he suffered through ten hours of lecture and two of discussion/lab section a week.  
As one face in a sea of five-hundred, he could easily ditch the lecture part of the course if he were  
less honest... (the discussion section, of course, would be more difficult to evade for not only  
were the sections limited to twenty-five students but his discussion instructor was Commander  
Sotek who, if family legend was correct, had asked one Admiral Louisa Paris to assist him  
through pon farr years before and had consistently demonstrated a particular interest in the  
matriarch's family since.) After all, Mendok had to have seriously pissed off at least one of the  
higher-ups to get such an unbefitting assignment as an introductory course and no one in such a  
position would accuse Owen Paris's son - or Admiral Hollin's nephew or Admiral Louisa Paris's  
grandson... or Admiral Samuel Paris's great-grandson for that matter - of delinquency. Tom was  
not nearly as eager to reap the benefits of his lineage as some of his less enlightened classmates  
believed, but it was a simple fact that Mendok, given his already tenuous position, would not  
report Tom's absence... even if he took the time to notice. Growing up with a horde of  
distinguished forefathers breathing down the back of his neck had done many things: forcing him  
to understand and appreciate the unwritten political stratagems in Starfleet bureaucracy was one  
of them.

Getting browbeaten by jealous cadets who considered him nothing more than a lucky  
bastard with the higher-ups looking out for him was another. He sighed.

On the plus side, he wouldn't have to deal with the worst of that until Communications.  
Jek Detril, a particularly abrasive third-class Bajoran who - while extraordinarily gifted in  
quantum theory application - seemed to believe that anyone who had not grown up under  
Cardassian oppression had somehow gotten into the Academy for reasons less impressive or  
honorable than his own strength of character, usually accosted Tom in some way or another  
directly after Communications lecture. Tom could not figure out exactly why he had been  
targeted over, say, Quinn's son or Necheyev's daughter - though it was rather common  
knowledge that Rika Necheyev looked absolutely fantastic in her anbo-jyutsu suit... but Tom  
doubted that even Jek had the balls to actually publicize that... who the hell wanted to risk getting  
Necheyev for a mother-in-law? - but Jek was not cause for alarm. He was antagonistic and  
oftentimes downright confrontational in his dealings with most cadets and while Tom understood  
what the Bajoran had overcome to make it into the Academy - not the least of which was  
sneaking off Bajor and past the Cardassian patrols just to take the entrance exam - the simple fact  
was that Jek's hostility cost him any and all of the social influence it would take to pose any kind  
of threat to Tom.

It didn't make his callous disregard for Tom's personal accomplishments sting any less, of  
course.

He glanced at the chronometer. Oh-eight-fifty-three: seven minutes til he could stretch his  
legs as he hiked across the campus to Kirk Hall for Introductory Command Systems. That class  
was not nearly as mind-numbingly basic as Mendok's at least, even if Commodore Gahn seemed  
rather eager to go out of his way to find fault with Tom's work. Tom had spent his entire  
childhood immersed in Starfleet, though, and something as basic as command systems, well...  
Gahn could look and look but Tom simply had too much background to get caught up on the  
basics. Still, as much as he had learned about command systems before taking the class, it wasn't  
nearly as painful as having to stay conscious through Propulsion and Navigation.

He'd once considered just forgetting appearances and sleeping through the damned class...  
but the fact was that Tom Paris was an inherently compassionate person. The majority of his  
classmates had never flown Starfleet technology before and if they had, it was almost certain that  
they knew only as much as one of the many Academy entrance tutorial programs taught them. To  
sleep through such a class was to not only cruise along on the momentum generated from the  
advantages he'd been given but to wave those advantages in the faces of those who were not so  
lucky. There was no excuse for that kind of insensitivity. Moreover, if there was one thing Tom  
wanted to do it was to use the momentum from his father - and his grandmother and aunt to a  
certain degree - as a jumping-off point. He was not one to stagnate... acceleration was the key.

He stopped himself before he got caught up on the acceleration thing. Acceleration was  
definitely the key... so long as it didn't fracture the damned hull. He'd been spending his nights  
reprogramming the flight sims, accessing and then disabling the main safety protocols - all flight  
sims, except for a set in the bowels of the Flight department, were programmed to accept only  
sanctioned maneuvers as defined in the Academy flight regulations. Sanctioned maneuvers, Tom  
knew, were simply not striking enough to catch the attention of the Nova Squadron... and getting  
into the Squadron was a top priority if he wanted access to real ships... and he needed access to  
real ships.

So he generally spent his nights in the modified sims, carefully planning his trial flight plan.  
To dazzle the Nova Squadron, he had to perform something no other fourth-class would even  
attempt. Obviously, that meant something his peers could not practice... which meant something  
the sims would not tolerate: taking an Immelmann Turn - the single-craft stunt simultaneously  
performed by five ships in a Diamond Slot formation to create a Yeager Loop - at half impulse  
and accelerating to warp throughout the inclination, for example. Without fracturing the hull, of  
course... that was a rather important consideration. No one in the history of the Squadron had  
pushed a Turn into faster-than-light speeds... as far as Tom knew, no one had ever completed any  
such stunt at warp without tearing the hull apart. He had completed the stunt successfully  
twenty-three out of twenty-three times. Granted, it was done on a simulator, but no one on the  
current Squadron could boast of a success rate that high for a new maneuver, real or simulated. If  
he was lucky, he would be in the Squadron by the end of the semester... if he was extremely  
lucky, they would grant him a little bit of freedom with his ship.

He started then, berating himself for allowing his mind to wander completely. He tuned  
back in to Mendok's lecture.

"Faster than light, no left or right," the Benzite was saying in a complete monotone,  
speaking more towards the viewing screen than to his audience. "Say it with me, cadets."

"Faster than light, no left or right," the class intoned obediently.

Tom resisted the urge to groan. That would be unnecessarily vicious to those cadets who  
had never flown at warp before and his own impatience was no reason to be cruel - not everyone  
had a 'Fleet father eager to take them up in an old Class One shuttle on weekends. Michael  
Harris, from the Mars colony, had pretty much single-handedly gotten him through Novakovich's  
socio-cultural anthropology course... and he had never flown anything but a ground transport  
before. And Elaina Duman, daughter of the third house of Betazed, had had chauffeurs to shuttle  
her family around during her youth - she had never so much as been in a cockpit... and she had  
patiently and tirelessly assisted him through quantum physics. He owed it to them to return their  
grace and patience... not to mention all the other cadets who were not lucky enough to have had  
access to sims and shuttles throughout their childhoods.

Mendok didn't give any indication that he had heard the cadets echo him, continuing in  
that same dreaded, droning voice, "When possible, maintain a linear trajectory. Course  
corrections could fracture the hull." He glanced over his shoulder expectantly.

"When possible, maintain a linear trajectory," Tom chorused along with his classmates,  
dutifully inputting the data into his PADD. No doubt Mendok would put the cutesy phrase on the  
midterm. More importantly, though, if he was going to tutor Elaina and Michael as they had  
asked, he would need complete notes from the course to do it properly. "Course corrections  
could fracture the hull." Which is why being at warp and still alive by the end of an Immelmann  
Turn will hopefully get me access to real ships... Tom thought, gazing thoughtfully at the basic  
principle outlined on his PADD.

The room suddenly stilled and Tom looked up, frowning at the Benzite doctor. Mendok's  
attention was focused elsewhere and Tom followed his gaze to the right, stage-level door of the  
lecture hall... and fought the urge to jump to attention.

It was the dean of the College of Flight, Exin L'Khit, and it was her recognizable  
Shitakaan countenance which had no doubt silenced the five-hundred cadets who filled the hall...  
but it was the lean, dark-haired man by the dean's side who caught Tom's eye. It was Leonard  
Craven, he was sure of it. The man was a legend, a living, breathing legend... a living, breathing  
legend who should have been killed long ago by any one of his many escapades. Tom could  
remember watching the video feed as a child when Craven, little more than an ensign at the time,  
negotiated the Cateras Asteroid Belt on full impulse in a decrepit Corvallen freighter to save his  
ship. He remembered his father inviting him aboard the Al Batani long enough to rendezvous  
with Craven's ship... the demonstration his father had requested of Craven had been phenomenal,  
a larger-than-life presentation from a larger-than-life idol to one boy with a serious case of hero  
worship.

All that came back to Tom as he stared at Commander Leonard Craven's figure.

Two steps behind Craven, the customary 'discrete' distance between two officers of  
significantly different ranks, was a striking young Bajoran, standing at a cool parade rest. She  
appeared rather young, despite the practiced ease with which she maintained her stance, but Tom  
could not see her collar well enough to determine if she was commissioned or not.

L'Khit crooked a figure to Mendok, gesturing for the Benzite to approach her. Their  
conversation was brief, muted, and pretty much one-sided and Tom, from his twenty-fifth-row  
vantage point, could not make out a word. He saw Mendok nod briskly, then turn back to the  
class.

"Cadet Fourth-Class Thomas Paris, please report to the stage."

And then Tom knew.

They'd found his damned safety bypasses on the flight simulators.

He could have wiped the bypasses from the computer's memory after every run... but then  
he'd have to spend twenty minutes recreating the bypass before every subsequent simulation.  
That was twenty wasted minutes.

If course, it was also twenty minutes that could have been the difference between fame -  
of completing an Immelmann Turn at warp - and infamy - of getting caught tinkering with  
Academy equipment. His father, though he had never actually demanded that Tom enter the  
Academy, would prefer the former. And Tom did not want to meet his hero because of the latter.

He gained his feet, willing himself to ignore the stares of the cadets around him and more  
importantly, willing a level of confidence into his stride that he did not feel. He felt a wave of  
warm encouragement flow over him - it was a compassionate telepathic offering from Elaina and  
though his mind was whirling far too fast to construct a proper thank-you in his head for her to  
find, he was pretty sure that she could sense his gratitude.

The walk down the stairs to stage level was interminably long and he squared his  
shoulders against the weight of five-hundred stares. His father had always told him that it was not  
a man's failure but the reaction he had to that failure that classified him as weak or as strong.  
And Tom Paris, he reminded himself, was nothing if not strong.

He came to attention adeptly in front of the L'Khit and Craven, focusing on a distant point  
directly over the dean's right shoulder. "Reporting as ordered, sir," he said briskly, his voice  
solid, resounding clearly throughout the hall.

"You will accompany us, Cadet," said L'Khit, her voice low and not a little bit ominous.

Tom's composure did not falter. "Yes, sir," was his quick, impassive response.

As L'Khit and Craven turned on their heels, he fell into step exactly two paces behind  
them and one step to the right of the Bajoran. Because he had not been released from attention,  
he clasped his hands behind his back, kept his shoulders squared and his chin high, and silently  
followed them. In such a position, he could see only that the Bajoran's collar was adorned with  
the four distinctive bars of a first-class cadet. He did not dare risk a more detailed inspection; her  
calculated, deliberate movements and aloof tilt to her head screamed 'unapproachable'. And he  
had no desire to add 'insubordinate' to his list of transgressions... though, given the content of  
that list, insubordination was probably the least of his worries.

They were heading toward Armstrong Hall, the main College of Flight building which  
boasted Flight administrative offices, two large lecture halls, a hundred smaller discussion-style  
rooms, and the only set of flight simulators on campus which were not held to sanctioned  
maneuvering. Tom, while only a fourth-class and not enrolled in any of the upper division flight  
courses that were usually held in the hall, had made a point to memorize the layout of the building  
if only to be better prepared when he did have reason to navigate the hall. So when L'Khit and  
Craven abruptly turned to the left, bypassing Wright Auditorium, Tom knew he was doomed...  
they were headed straight for the flight simulators.

Why he was being taken to those particular sims instead of the ones he had tweaked, he  
was not sure... but it was certainly more than a coincidence and he allowed himself a momentary  
grimace before replacing his carefully-schooled mask of nonchalance.

But then L'Khit passed the simulators, not turning her rather distinctively-shaped head to  
the side to even acknowledge that she was passing by the best set of flight simulators in the  
quadrant. Tom himself could not imagine such easy indifference; where he had responded to a  
public summons by the dean of the College of Flight and arguably the most skilled pilot in the  
galaxy with complete composure, the thought of walking through an entire level of state-of-the-  
art flight simulators without even getting to turn his head to see as much of them as he could was  
almost enough to break his discipline.

The dean stopped so abruptly in front of a door that Tom very nearly collided with her and  
he thanked whatever deity was looking out for doomed cadets at that moment for allowing him to  
stop in time. "Cadet Paris," she said sharply.

He immediately regained his stance with a brisk, "Yes, sir."

"You bypassed standard safety protocols on simulator level 4-A a total of 4 times in the  
past two weeks," she said without preamble.

He forced himself not to blink at her terse, cold tone, struggling to maintain his  
indifference in looking over her shoulder. "Three times in simulator level 4-A and once in level 4-  
B, sir."

"Cadet Paris, as you are no doubt aware, that is a significant violation of -"

Craven spoke then, holding up his hand to silence the dean. Tom was astonished at such  
blatant insubordination - according to a quick pip count, Craven was a commander... and L'Khit,  
a dean, was of course a full admiral. If the icy glare in L'Khit's eyes were any indication, she did  
not appreciate the insubordination at all... and yet she lapsed into silence.

"You ran twenty-three simulations during this period," Craven stated.

His voice lacked the frost of L'Khit's, but it had an edge, a certain undefinable quality to it  
that was far more striking. Tom refocused on a distant point above Craven's head. "Yes, sir."

"You will look me in the eye when I address you, Cadet." His voice was deceptively  
mild.

Tom did as ordered, resisting the urge to gulp. The man's face, surprisingly young and  
unlined for a man who had been defined for years by his perilous exploits, was completely  
expressionless, his dark eyes unreadable. Tom only hoped that he could maintain his own  
composure in light of such disconcerting impassivity. "Yes, sir," he said.

"Please explain your execution of the simulation, Mr. Paris."

They were going to delay assignation of his punishment as long as possible, drawing out  
the suspense in an attempt to crack him. It was not a man's failure but the reaction he had to that  
failure that classified him as weak or as strong, Tom reminded himself... and little did they know,  
but Owen Paris did not raise weaklings.

"Commander Craven -" and here he paused for a fraction of a section to enjoy the look of  
open surprise on L'Khit's face as she no doubt wondered how exactly this upstart fourth-year  
knew Leonard Craven; Craven's expression, however, as well as that of the Bajoran, did not  
waver and somehow Tom had known that they wouldn't - "during the simulation in question, I  
begin an Immelmann Turn at half impulse and accelerate throughout the ascent such that I achieve  
warp one approximately one half of the way through the reorientation of the craft at the crest of  
the loop."

The commander's countenance did not change. "You accelerate throughout the entire  
ascent phase?" He could have been inquiring about the weather for all the inflection to his words.

"Yes, sir." A little rain in the forecast, sir, but San Francisco is prone to light showers at  
this time of the year.

"And you finish the quarter revolution necessary to complete the reorientation phase at  
warp?" The Bajoran cadet asked that question, her voice as mild as Craven's.

"Yes, sir," he informed her, though he did not take his gaze away from Craven's. He  
noted out of the corner of his eye that L'Khit shot the first-class a disapproving glare for speaking  
out of turn, but the cadet did not even grace the dean with a response.

Craven was silent for a long moment. L'Khit was staring hard at him now, but he didn't  
appear to care overly much. In fact, Tom could not even be sure that he had noticed her pointed  
gaze... or if he could even be bothered to. It was the exact same way the Bajoran cadet had  
responded to L'Khit's glower.

"Do it."

Tom blinked in spite of himself. "Sir?" he ventured.

"I said to do it, Cadet." Craven's tone had not changed, his volume had remained  
constant... and yet Tom could hear the intensity behind his words and moreover, he could sense  
the imminence of his demise if he chose to ignore that intensity. Craven indicated the door behind  
him with a short nod of his head and explained, "This is a holodeck, usually reserved for Flight  
faculty. There is a preprogrammed stunt cruiser for you. You have twenty minutes."

"My orders, sir?"

The man's face was carved from stone. "Impress me."

He turned away abruptly then, the Bajoran two steps off of his heels. They were followed  
a moment later by a scowling L'Khit.

Tom spent a valuable minute of his time staring after them, wondering what exactly had  
just happened. When he walked into the holodeck, he still didn't have it figured out... but once  
inside, he had more important things to think about.

Like how in the hell he was supposed to pull an Immelmann Turn in a damned Class One  
at all... let alone do it at warp.

He had twenty minutes to do the impossible.

But honestly? That was longer than most Starfleet officers had.

"Computer, give me a fifteen-minute countdown in five-minute intervals," he snapped,  
striding forward purposefully. Fifteen minutes to turn the Class One into a stunt-worthy vessel...  
and five to prove that the metamorphosis was complete. He was certain Craven and L'Khit were  
in the viewing booth, waiting for him to demonstrate an impossible maneuver... but Craven had  
given him twenty minutes and he intended to use them all. He suspected that Craven expected  
him to.

He could theoretically take the Class One up for a quick run, maybe even an attempt at an  
Immelmann... see what needed the most work. Most cadets in this situation would do that; it was  
Starfleet style to observe then act accordingly. Then again, Tom had spent more time in a Class  
One than in a crib and he would only waste time taking her up. He knew that class of shuttle  
intimately and he was well-versed in her two main flaws: because she was designed for short-  
term, low-priority missions, her response time had not been a priority in her design specs - even at  
the time of her construction, her response time had been measurably slow... now, years after she  
had been taken out of service, it was almost intolerably sluggish; and because her maximum  
cruising speed was warp two, her hull was comparably lean... it would crack like an egg the  
moment he made the tiniest course correction at warp. So he had less than fifteen minutes to  
retrofit her hull and upgrade her circuitry.

No problem.

Tom was nothing if not creative.

The hull was the priority. Tom was already considered a good pilot; what he lacked in  
actual formal training he more than made up for with rock-solid instincts. He was relatively  
certain that he could at least to some degree anticipate course and orientation headings.  
Anticipatory piloting might very well negate the disadvantages of a sluggish helm. That, however,  
would be worthless if the damned hull fractured.

And the hull would fracture... unless he could reinforce the weak spots with something.  
Tritanium alloy plating, perhaps. It would take some testing to determine the optimal density of  
the alloy such that it could both be sealed over the stressed points as well as provide some kind of  
protection. Plus it would take time; he had a feeling that Craven wanted him to treat this as an  
actual shuttle, not a holographic representation of one which he could modify by simply giving the  
computer instructions.

That gave him pause.

It was a holographic shuttle. He would use the craft once, for a single flight run, and  
she would dematerialize as soon as he left the holodeck... sooner if he failed, but he did not intend  
to fail. He was treating her as an actual shuttle; he was planning his modifications as if those  
modifications would matter after his twenty minutes passed, after she had returned to nothing  
more than a data sequence in the holodeck's memory coils. And the modifications wouldn't  
matter then, now would they? All he had to do was get through a single stunt.

A single stunt... without concern for the future. It was an exhilarating idea.

The key point then, Tom mused, was the instant the shuttle hit the peak transitional warp  
threshold during the reorientation phase of the Turn. It was at that point that the hull would be  
unable to take the stress and fracture. She simply wasn't designed for that kind of maneuvering;  
her nacelles would try to take a linear trajectory at the threshold and rip themselves away from the  
body of the craft as he tried to modify the orientation. The key, then, was to modify her warp  
field such that the weakest points of the hull were buffered with a more powerful field; he would  
have to even out the entire warp field over the body of the shuttle such that there were no  
appreciable differences in field strength... and that, he reasoned, would disperse the threshold  
stresses across the body of the shuttle, rather than in a particular area such as would snap the hull.

It would also eventually destroy the shuttle. She could never maintain that power level  
through her nacelles for longer than three seconds - but Tom only needed less than one to  
complete the Turn. And her injector systems were not designed to handle that kind of energy; it  
would most certainly blow out her entire warp drive - but nothing mattered after Tom got that  
one second of warp.

Less than fifteen minutes to completely rework an entire warp field. He wondered briefly  
if this could satisfy his field methodology requirement... but probably not, if his damned  
propulsion project hadn't gotten him out of Mendok's class.

Once he had his game plan, he made quick work of the modifications. He had never  
actually mucked around in the circuitry of a Class One - his father had been understandably  
adamant about not letting a six-year-old dissect Starfleet technology - but he was familiar with her  
specs in a textbook kind of way and he finished his last bypass just as the computer concluded the  
fifteen-minute countdown.

Five minutes left to do the impossible.

If it could still be considered that.

He hopped lightly into the pilot's seat, relishing for a moment the sense of nostalgic  
familiarity the washed over him. It had been years since he had taken a whirl around Neptune  
with his father - even though mastering standard evasion patterns with him had been exciting,  
there was a special place in his heart for the quarter-impulse runs they had made around the Solar  
system.

He turned his attention back where it belonged. In spite of safety regulations, he did not  
run a pre-flight diagnostic sequence; he had no desire to listen to the computer tell him how  
dangerous his modifications were. He knew it. Instead, he said, "Computer, begin simulation."

The yellow-on-black grid faded away in the instant following the computer's twinkling  
acknowledgment, replaced with the sterile gray shuttlebay of... Utopia Planitia?

"Nice touch," Tom mumbled to himself as he prepared the shuttle for launch.

A moment later, he was guiding the shuttle out of the bay, admiring the well-programmed  
view of Mars, keeping a careful eye on his energy levels. Class Ones were not usually equipped  
with significant energy reserves and the last thing he needed was for his power to fail as he hit the  
transitional threshold. But everything checked out okay.

Which left... the Immelmann Turn.

Tom had learned the Turn itself at an extremely young age. He had actually been  
forbidden from performing such a deed at first, the stunt strictly prohibited til such a time as he  
could explain to his father the scientific tenets that guided such a maneuver. Tom supposed his  
father had made such a stipulation in the hopes that it would keep his son from attempting what  
could only be considered critically dangerous to a child of his age; however, Tom had  
demonstrated even then that he did not like impossibilities... within a month, he had learned  
enough to be able to inform his father, rather mightily despite his overly simplified view of things,  
of everything happening during the maneuver - and his father had been forced to cave. And  
despite the initial trouble young Tom Paris had later had with Yeager Loops - he had had  
difficulty trusting the other four crafts, holographic though they were, to maintain their Diamond  
Slot formation adequately and had tended to choke - his first run at an Immelmann had been  
textbook perfect. No Immelmann since had been less.

As he skillfully guided the shuttle to the main Academy stunt grounds, he worked the  
procedure through his head one last time. The approach... the ascent... the reorientation... and the  
retreat. Simple. He'd done more Immelmanns than he could count... and twenty-three of them  
were done at warp. Simple.

He reminded himself one more time to return immediately to impulse after completing the  
retreat. He had very little warp power to spare before he blew out the engine.

He brought the shuttle about and began the approach. He had plenty of space... he would  
begin the ascent when it felt right. No sooner. It was imperative that he get a sense of this  
particular shuttle, of her individual quirks, to be able to properly anticipate her behavior.

He had flown for approximately ten seconds, carefully gauging her responsiveness to his  
touch, before he began preparing for the ascent. He double-checked to make sure the warp  
engines were operable... made sure the injectors were buffered enough not to blow in the  
middle... And he began the ascent.

It was quite a task, accelerating to warp through a backflip. He had to not only maintain  
the form of the loop itself, but simultaneously adjust the speed accordingly. It was apparently  
quite a chore for the shuttle as well, for she began shuddering, the vibrations increasing as he  
neared the transitional threshold to warp one...

And then he found himself on a blank holodeck grid in a rather undignified crouch.

Craven strode through the doors then, hands clasped behind his back. The Bajoran cadet  
was no longer two steps behind him - she was two inches off his right shoulder, inputting data  
manually into a PADD. L'Khit was to his left, glowering.

Tom was bewildered at the sudden cessation of his program - he knew he had at least  
three minutes left - but not nearly disconcerted enough to forget his place. He gained his feet and  
stiffened to attention in a single, fluid motion.

"Sir," was all he said.

"Thank you for your time, Cadet," Craven said with a polite inclination of his head. "You  
may return to your duties now."

Tom, by sheer force of will, did not give voice to the question sitting impatiently on his  
tongue. "Yes, sir," he said, quite aware that his voice sounded somewhat strangled as he had to  
force the acknowledgment past his lips without letting the question out too.

L'Khit's cold voice stopped him as he turned to leave. "You were not dismissed, Cadet,"  
she informed him icily.

And Tom realized then, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that he had not been. Not  
formally... and certainly not by the senior officer present. Craven had certainly released him but  
given L'Khit's vastly superior rank... He immediately stopped in his tracks and went back to  
attention, visions of L'Khit ranting to his father about his insolence running through his head. "I  
apologize, sir."

L'Khit's eyes were narrowed in displeasure - and the double pupils, features of her  
Shitakaan heritage, gave her a far more ominous appearance than Admiral Lucin had when  
confronted with his imperfect linens. Though L'Khit had not yet, for reason unknown, assigned  
him a punishment for his comparably significant infraction, she was apparently not about to let  
him get away without a formal dismissal. And she was right in doing so, Tom reasoned, because  
he had responded to Craven's authoritative presence rather than her rank. Frankly, though, Tom  
was surprised at his oversight; having grown up in a family of flag officers, he was certainly  
educated well enough in Starfleet social structures to avoid such transgressions.

What surprised Tom more, however, was the barest hint of a smile that crossed Craven's  
face. It was gone in a flash and Tom could not be completely certain he had seen it, but the  
Bajoran cadet had her own version of such a faint smile on her lips. He began to wonder if she  
was a normal first-class cadet at all; her exact emulation of Craven's mannerisms would indicate  
that she had spent a great deal of time with him... and yet Craven was not on the Academy  
faculty.

"I caution you against acting like one of the commander's lackeys before you prove  
yourself invaluable enough for me to ignore it, Cadet," L'Khit continued in the same frosty tone.  
"Your father will not be as amused by this situation as I am."

Tom carefully schooled his features. He had no idea what the hell she was talking about  
and he certainly had no idea how or when he had become a 'lackey' to Craven, but he was not  
about to debate it with the admiral. It was bad enough that half the damned Admiralty knew him  
by the childhood exploits his father had proudly telegraphed... no way he was going to be  
discussed at the next luncheon for direct insubordination to the dean of the College of Flight.  
"Yes, sir," he said.

She glared at him for a moment longer, then snapped, "Dismissed."

He escaped then, grateful that he had memorized the layout of Armstrong Hall because no  
one bothered to accompany him on the return trip.

Had he failed? he wondered as he trekked across campus to Kirk Hall for his Introduction  
to Command Systems class. He had had approximately three minutes left of his twenty... and yet  
Craven had shut down the simulation right before the critical point. Why would he ask Tom to  
demonstrate a warp-speed Immelmann Turn only to end the simulation before he could properly  
attempt it?

The only way such a thing would make sense is if he hadn't really been interested in the  
Immelmann Turn at all.

But then what had he been looking for?

And had he seen it?

And why in God's name hadn't L'Khit given him a micro-sanitizer and sent him off to  
Lavatory Sanitation for a month? That was the least he could have expected for reprogramming  
the sims.

Not that anything that morning had gone as expected.

And now he was going to be late to Introductory Command Systems. Gahn would  
probably have a field day with that one, Tom realized with a sigh.

He entered the lecture hall quietly, manually shutting the door to quiet the latch, and  
moving to take the closest available aisle seat. Gahn noticed him before he could sit down.

"Nice of you to join us, Mr. Paris," the professor remarked.

And given that Introduction to Command Systems was an entry-level course, Gahn's  
voice was amplified to reach every corner of the hall... and the hall itself was completely filled  
with cadets who all immediately swung around to stare at him. And half of them, Tom was sure,  
had just seen him get called out of Propulsion and Navigation.

He jumped to attention then. It couldn't hurt. "I apologize for my tardiness, sir," he said.  
He didn't bother explaining where he had been; Gahn had not asked for an excuse... and even if he  
had, he would never believe it. So Tom wisely chose a simple, cool apology.

Gahn folded his arms over his chest. Bad sign, Tom sighed to himself without breaking  
his stance. "Perhaps," the commodore said conversationally, "since you seem to know enough on  
this subject to show up to the lecture on your own time, you would like to list the different modes  
on, say, a Galaxy-class starship to those of your peers who adhere to my schedule."

Tom considered briefly whether he should play dumb just to get out of the hot seat or to  
answer to the best of his knowledge. The latter would most like infuriate Gahn and while he had  
never actually gone out of his way to piss off a superior, he had never been one to apologize for  
his knowledge either.

"Major modes on a Galaxy-class starship include cruise, yellow, red, external support,  
separated flight, and reduced power modes, sir," he answered quickly, saying a quick prayer to  
the same deity that had saved him from colliding with L'Khit for making him actually listen to his  
father rave about the new design specs at the dinner table.

He added another prayer, this one more of supplication than gratitude, as Gahn scowled at  
him. He realized somewhat belatedly that he deserved it. Starfleet didn't like smartasses.  
Hindsight being a high-resolution sensor mode, he should have just begged the commodore's  
pardon once again and taken his seat. A part of him wished fervently that he had done so... the  
other part resented being singled out and harassed because of his knowledge.

"Have a seat, Mr. Paris."

Tom breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. The tightness of Gahn's voice marked his  
irritation but he was apparently unwilling to waste more lecture time on confrontation... and that,  
as uncharacteristic of Gahn as it was, was just fine by Tom.

Sometimes he just wished he were a normal cadet.

With a sigh, he relaxed from attention - he was really going to hurt himself if he kept  
having to maintain complete stillness for such long periods of time - and stepped back to find a  
good, inconspicuous seat... and he bumped into someone.

From the looks of abject horror painted across the faces of the cadets around him, that  
'someone' was probably an admiral. Tom didn't know if he should wish it was his father or not...  
would he rather be grounded from the family shuttles or on Lavatory Sanitation patrol?

It looked like it was going to be both: as he slowly turned around, he noted that Admirals  
Owen Paris and Exin L'Khit were both standing one step above him, matching glares on their  
faces.

How L'Khit had managed to arrive in Kirk Hall only minutes after Tom had, after she had  
not only concluded her time with Leonard Craven but apparently contacted, met, and debriefed  
Owen Paris, was nothing short of amazing. And the fact that Owen Paris had spoken with  
L'Khit, traveled from Headquarters, and wore a frown on his face not unlike the one Tom had  
received after crashing the family hovercar during a drag race, was nothing short of apocalyptic.

He immediately jumped to attention. "Sirs," he said.

"If we may perhaps borrow Cadet Paris for a moment, Commodore," L'Khit said politely.

"It'll be longer than a moment," his father corrected her in a near growl. "Don't expect  
him back today, Gahn. Cadet, you're with me."

And for the second time in less than an hour, Tom Paris was paraded out of a lecture in  
front of five-hundred cadets. He imagined it was the talk of the campus. Jek Detril was probably  
already exploiting it... Admiral's son gone bad and all that.

Nothing like getting singled out in front of all his peers - twice - to make him feel like a  
normal cadet.

"Tom?"

Paris, shaking himself out of his reverie, noticed the Captain was standing over his right  
shoulder, a look of open concern on her face. She'd probably asked him a question, he realized  
somewhat belatedly. "Sorry, Captain," he said, shooting her what he hoped was a sheepish grin.

"Are you okay, Tom?" she asked him quietly. Whether his attempt at humor had fallen  
flat or she simply was not one to be duped by it, he could not say.

"Yeah," he said... but amended, appreciating on some small level her amazing ability to  
perceive that which he otherwise usually managed to disguise, "Just a little... nostalgic."

From the gentle way she rubbed his shoulder, he could tell she understood that it was a  
whole lot more than just nostalgia. But she didn't press him, as he had known she wouldn't.

"Are we safe in here, Tom?" she asked him then.

He had forgotten for a moment that she, as well as everyone else on the ship, had no idea  
what they were dealing with. That he, the only person qualified to anticipate and interpret the  
Storm's activities, had allowed himself to get lost in a daydream was risky and irresponsible; that  
she, in light of her own compassionate nature and what little she knew of his tumultuous past, had  
opted not to berate him for his inattention was both surprising... and not. The woman understood  
- in that uncanny way she had of understanding things - that the situation had freed a few of his  
demons from their shackles and that he would require time to properly arrest them. The Captain,  
though, trusted him to take care of her ship at the same time.

It was humbling, her faith in him. Not that she didn't have a history of humbling him one  
way or another.

"The hard part is done, Captain," he told her in the same quiet tone. "Getting in to the eye  
of the Storm is the hard part. Staying in, getting out... those are easy." Something occurred to  
him then. "Did you want out?"

She waved a hand. "Not at all," she said with a smile. "I have to admit, it's a fascinating  
experience. Regular Starfleet officers don't usually get this kind of first-hand glimpse into the  
lifestyle of our elite piloting corps."

Paris could practically hear every ear on the bridge prick up at that. He shot the Captain a  
surprised glance.

She shrugged daintily in response to his unasked question. "They know all about the  
Omega Directive," she reminded him, still facing the viewscreen but speaking loudly enough so  
that the aft stations could certainly hear her words. "Knowing that Starfleet has its own otherwise  
secret elitist flight squadron certainly won't impress them." She smiled down at him.

She was teasing them! Paris realized then. She was purposely dangling tantalizing bits of  
information in front of those officers who, because of their lower ranks, were not privy to the  
information she was. An entire elitist training facility entirely unknown to any non-recruit under  
the rank of captain? In the vaunted candor of Starfleet? No doubt poor Harry was wondering if  
he had been left out of the loop yet again... Chakotay was probably wondering if this 'elite  
piloting corps' had trained him as a spy - gods only knew Chakotay had a bad history with those...  
and Tuvok, well, Paris could just imagine his little Vulcan wheels rotating as quickly as possible  
to identify and contain this possible new security risk.

Despite the strain of ten years' worth of deserved self-castigation weighing down on his  
shoulders, he had to chuckle. And that, he realized after a moment, was the Captain's ulterior  
motive.

"Why don't you use the terminal in my ready room to prepare your presentation?" she  
suggested.

He just acknowledged the rather unconventional recommendation with a nod. With less  
than ten minutes until the briefing, he needed a terminal nearby to prepare... and by using her  
ready room instead of the conference lounge, he would have the privacy to do so. Since she had  
already blown the proverbial top off the Phantom Regiment, she was ensuring him privacy not to  
prepare the data... but to prepare himself.

Her insight should really scare the hell out of him.

"Commander, take the helm until Mr. Paris's replacement arrives," the Captain ordered  
then.

Bereft of her calming presence as she left the helm and strode back to her seat, he felt  
almost abandoned. But he reminded himself that of all he had learned from the Regiment, the  
power of his own independence was the most valuable and he wasn't about to let a little thing like  
near destruction ruin it. Grown men, particularly ones with his background, did not need their  
captain reassuring them every step of the way as she would a small child.

So he relinquished the Conn to Chakotay and retreated to the Captain's ready room,  
painfully aware that he was the center of attention. The hiss of the ready room doors closing  
behind him should have brought him relief, assuring him that he was cocooned by titanium walls  
away from the bridge crew's curious glances. But the fact that he had never before been alone in  
what was considered nearly as personal to the Captain as her own quarters - he was pretty sure  
she spent a great deal more time in the ready room than in her quarters anyway - served only to  
emphasize his rather extraordinary situation. What he wouldn't give to just be normal...

And so he sank into the surprising softness of her chair with a knot of trepidation in his  
stomach, flipping her terminal on. He stared at the Starfleet insignia for a minute.

"Computer, access Starfleet database, Phantom Regiment," he said finally, quietly.

"That information is classified," the computer informed him.

"Authorization Paris alpha-alpha-seven."

The computer emitted a staccato burst of dissonant tones. "Invalid authorization code."

Of course it was. He had given that code out of habit; he associated that particular code  
with his Regiment years, even though Starfleet had voided that and indeed all of his old access  
codes the moment his court-martial had been finalized. The Captain's reinstatement of his rank  
would not have included the high-security code he needed to access the Regiment's files through  
regular Starfleet channels.

Some things, though, transcended paltry little things like court-martials.

He took a deep breath. "Computer," he said slowly, unsure whether or not being denied  
access was more frightening that being granted it, "identify Phoenix Alpha One, authorization  
alpha-omega-alpha."

The computer twinkled. "Voiceprint analysis complete and verified. Authorization code  
verified. How's it hanging?"

Typical personality confirmation subroutine, Paris noted, unimpressed. It wasn't even  
significantly different than the last one he'd been subjected to years earlier. A bigger concern,  
however, was the fact that because he had left the Regiment so long ago, the database for the  
squadron had a complete file on his personality as it was then... he knew the computer would not  
take into consideration the years that had passed. It was Craven's way of making sure his  
students didn't change too much.

"Wanna find out?" he asked the computer, suddenly grateful that the Captain had allowed  
him the privacy of her ready room.

"Will I be disappointed?" the computer asked.

The computer's monotone was enough to make the words sound more ridiculous than  
they otherwise seemed. He would laugh at the simple ludicrousness, but he couldn't quite  
manage the feat.

"I never disappoint," he said.

"Sounds promising," the computer noted in its impassive drone.

"I don't make promises either. About anything"

The computer gave a long series of beeps then. "Personality confirmed. Welcome home,  
Phoenix."

"He has been reassigned."

"Cadets are not reassigned!" snapped L'Khit, her voice almost shrill in comparison to  
Leonard Craven's mild tone.

Tom blinked at her harsh outburst. It was Academy policy for faculty to present  
themselves as united a front as possible to cadets... not to mention that it was simply unforgivably  
unprofessional to do otherwise. He had never seen such open hostility before from a dean.

"Admiral L'Khit, you know as well as I do that they are." Craven's tone did not change.  
It was quiet, almost disinterested and seemed to aggravate L'Khit far more than just his  
dissension.

"Cadets belong at the Academy, Craven."

Tom resisted the urge to break attention and look up at his father's voice. It was the first  
time Owen Paris had spoken since he, L'Khit, and Tom had rendezvoused with Craven and the  
Bajoran cadet in L'Khit's office.

Craven glanced over at Paris. "This one does not, Admiral Paris," he said simply.

Paris's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "The boy could be a captain by age thirty,  
Commander. I cannot allow him to waste his talents in some kind of underground circus."

"That underground circus, Admiral Paris, supplied the pilots to secure the victories in  
every war Starfleet has ever won. And please consider all the 'unofficial' missions our pilots have  
successfully carried out in the name of Starfleet."

Tom blanched. Openly disagreeing with Owen Paris was never a good idea.

But... an underground 'circus' of Starfleet pilots? Seemingly headed by Leonard Craven  
himself? Tom couldn't help but be captivated.

"Surely you are not arrogant enough to believe that the Regiment single-handedly won all  
our battles?" L'Khit demanded.

"The reassignment has already been approved, Admiral," said Craven in an almost  
placating tone, skillfully directing the conversation away from what was obviously a point of  
contention between the two of them. He offered a PADD to L'Khit who, after scanning it briefly,  
handed it to Paris. "Surely you are aware of the recruitment policies."

"Your high-handed methods are not appreciated, Commander," L'Khit said with icy poise.

Paris stepped in then. "Admiral, Commander," he said with the practiced evenness of a  
skilled diplomat, "if we could please direct the conversation back to the situation at hand?" He  
waited for undivided attention from his colleagues. "Commander Craven, you have informed me  
that my son has been reassigned to the Colonis System where he will receive specialized training.  
You have not explained that training, the role it will play in his future, or even why a first-year  
cadet has been reassigned off Academy grounds."

"I don't have to," Craven said simply.

Tom barely restrained a grimace. Craven was either extremely stupid or suicidal; no one  
so blatantly opposed Owen Paris.

"This is my son we are talking about here, Craven." Paris's voice was deadly calm.

"No, Admiral," said Craven with quiet intensity, "you are talking about your son. I am  
talking about a young man with a natural aptitude for flying so striking that I cannot in any good  
conscience not recruit him, a young man who must be removed from this environment as  
soon as possible in order to avoid contamination of his natural gifts."

He began walking with a measured stride around the room, staring at both Paris and  
L'Khit in turn, and speaking with an equally measured, deliberate tone. Tom swallowed, glad that  
he was not yet the focus of that unwavering gaze.

Craven continued, "This cadet submitted as his entrance project a complete upgrade of  
current navigational systems so insightful that it sent Starfleet researchers scrambling for cover as  
the higher-ups wondered why they could not do what a mere cadet did. No one bothered to ask,  
Admirals, why the cadet could do what Starfleet's top researchers could not. And moreover,  
Admirals, no one has wondered just how much Starfleet is sacrificing in terms of its own future as  
that cadet sits for ten hours a week repeating 'Faster than light, no left or right' in a hall full of  
students who don't even know enough to appreciate his gift." He paused deliberately before  
delivering his last statement: "He does not belong here, Admiral."

When Owen Paris broke the silence that fell over the group following Craven's speech, he  
sounded hoarse. "Where does he belong then, Commander?"

Craven's answer was succinct: "With me." He gestured then to the Bajoran cadet who  
hovered behind him. "The curriculum for cadets in the Regiment is similar to that of the Academy  
as you well know. Instead of spending four years as a single, undistinguished face in a sea of  
thousands at the Academy, a cadet in the Regiment is known on an individual basis by every other  
member... and cadets and captains in the Regiment are equals, each actively contributing members  
of the organization. Cadet Paris will, in three and a half more years, graduate as he would from  
the Academy - you may consider the Regiment a field school, if you will, operating in conjunction  
with standard Academy curriculum; he may choose, in fact, to take a semester of courses here on  
Earth. The only difference is that he will have the opportunity to spend more time following  
graduation in the Regiment if he so desires... as a personal apprentice to any of the many  
decorated pilots we have... in our specialized training programs, the graduates of which are called  
upon by Starfleet for any number of crucial missions, only a fraction of which are actually  
documented... or as a graduate student instructor for incoming cadets, imparting his own acquired  
knowledge to them as he himself continues learning."

Tom was not quite sure he was breathing any more. The very idea... of... of a flight  
school... of learning from and serving with a group of pilots who, if Leonard Craven himself  
praised them, were certainly the most distinguished and skilled in all of Starfleet...

"I will need a detailed mission statement for him," Owen Paris said finally.

"You are aware of the Regiment only by benefit of your rank, Admiral," Craven reminded  
him almost gently. "Only members of the Regiment know anything more."

"That is unacceptable," Paris said sharply.

"That was not your opinion following your rescue from the Cardassians," was Craven's  
mild observation.

Tom gulped. He had been fifteen at the time of his father's capture and even as everyone  
had sought to shelter him from the inhumanity of his father's ordeal, he had known enough about  
Cardassian war techniques then to recognize the harsh reality. And he could not imagine ever  
bringing up such an ordeal in conversation.

L'Khit seemed similarly appalled. "Commander Craven, such disrespect will not be  
tolerated. You-"

"Do not mistake unacceptability for ingratitude, Commander," Paris interrupted, his words  
obviously chosen very carefully. "I am grateful to the Regiment for the pilots it supplied for my  
rescue. That does not mean I can accept complete ignorance regarding my only son's activities. I  
need to know what he will be doing."

"And you have already broken that policy by speaking of the Regiment in front of Cadet  
Paris," pointed out L'Khit. "Appeasement of the cadet's father warrants a similar breach."

Craven did not react outwardly to bombardment from two admirals, nor did he seem  
particularly apologetic for his cruel reference to Paris's nightmare. "Your son, Admiral Paris, will  
be contributing more to the future of Starfleet in the Regiment than he could in the Academy.  
Moreover the Regiment can contribute more to his future than the Academy ever could. That is  
all you need to know." And when he spoke to L'Khit, there was a ghost of a smile on his face.  
"And Admiral L'Khit... Cadet Paris is, and always has been, as much a member of the Regiment  
as I. If anything it is you who are performing the disservice here, for outside of your presence the  
cadet would already have been made aware of the details of his new assignment."

L'Khit opened her mouth - probably to respond hotly to Craven's dismissive tone, Tom  
realized with dread - but Paris caught her arm. "Let it go, Exin," he advised her quietly.

"Surely, Owen, you can't-" she began.

He just shook his head to silence her. To Craven, he said merely, "The reassignment?"

"Effective immediately," Craven responded. "I will be returning to the Colonis system this  
afternoon at fifteen-hundred hours. Cadet Paris will be accompanying me then."

"And his records?"

"Already approved and transferred."

Paris nodded briskly once, then turned his attention to the PADD Craven had handed to  
L'Khit. "I believe you owe Cadet Paris a briefing then, Commander. Dismissed."

"Admirals," said Craven politely with a slight inclination of his head, then turned and let  
himself out of the office. The Bajoran cadet followed him.

Tom, though, hesitated.

Owen Paris did not look up from the PADD. "You were dismissed, Cadet."

And so Tom exited the office with a somewhat hasty "yes, sir", rounding a corner at a  
rather unsafe speed in his haste to catch up with Craven. He'd never heard of a cadet being  
transferred from the Academy... he'd planned on spending a semester on the campus in France -  
he'd gotten a great tip from a second-year about a bar there - but surely his reassignment to the  
Colonis system was not affiliated with that... not if it was causing such a huge reaction from  
everyone involved.

And to study at a flight institute - a secret one, for that matter - with Leonard Craven...  
Tom was not sure he had fully wrapped his mind around that detail. It was simply unreal.

His mind, occupied as it was with questions atop of questions, left his body on autopilot  
and he was unable to re-engage it before running head-on into the Bajoran cadet as he burst  
around another corner.

She was far more striking up close. As she re-tucked a strand of raven hair up into the  
rather severe style she sported, repairing the damage done by their collision, Tom had a chance to  
really look at her. The delicate ridges on the bridge of her nose easily gave away her Bajoran  
heritage, as did the ornately crafted metal adorning her right ear. She was actually six or seven  
centimeters shorter than he was, a detail which surprised him: she carried herself with a stateliness  
than eclipsed her relatively short stature.

"I'm sorry," he apologized sincerely, adding an introduction that seemed rather  
unnecessary in retrospect, "Tom Paris."

She also had amazing green eyes, Tom noted, even as she attempted to intimidate him  
with a blatant head-to-toe inspection impassive enough to make a Vulcan proud. "Korin Elyss,"  
she said after completing her analysis. "I have been assigned as your undergrad advisor."

He blinked. "What does that mean?"

She was apparently not amused by his ignorance. "It means that you are my personal  
responsibility until such time that Commander Craven deems you worthy to function  
independently of an advisor," she said brusquely, abruptly turning on her heel and striding  
purposefully away, no doubt expected Tom to follow her. "That is," she continued, even though  
she did not look to the side to make sure Tom had caught up with her, "until you receive personal  
recognition from Commander Craven himself, you are answerable to me... and I am answerable  
for you."

"Directly challenging the dean of the College of Flight isn't personal recognition enough?"  
Tom asked her. She set an impressive pace for her comparably petite build, but he easily paced  
her.

She didn't spare him a glance, answering, "Nothing before today matters. And as you will  
learn soon enough, Mr. Paris, nothing after today matters either."

It took Tom a moment for realization to dawn. "That was the point of the simulation," he  
said. "It wasn't about doing the Turn at warp, was it? You just wanted to see how I would  
tweak the shuttle... to see if I would modify it to get the stunt off, even if everything blew up  
later."

"Take me to your dorm room," she ordered him instead of answering properly. "You  
must be packed within the hour. I will assist you."

She was more abrasive than Craven. Tom, accepting that she would be no more  
forthcoming with answers than her commander, merely took the lead and headed to his dorm.

She surprised him though when, a few minutes later, she murmured, "Quantum sufficiat."

Tom stopped in his tracks then. His Latin was rusty, almost unforgivably so given his  
family's insistence that he study it, but he turned slowly around, translating, "Quantum sufficiat...  
as much as may suffice." He cocked his head to one side, silent inviting her to explain.

She didn't appear to be particularly impressed with his rather rare ability. He had a feeling  
he could fly to Ferenginar, turn off the Universal Translator, and finagle a thousand bars of  
latinum from the Grand Nagus himself and still not impress her.

"That's your first lesson, Cadet," was all she said as she brushed past him. "You do what  
you need to do... to do what needs to be done."

"Quantum sufficiat," Paris reminded himself quietly as he transferred the Regiment's  
Storm files to the conference lounge in preparation for his briefing.

He had accessed the Regiment database only once since his court-martial. He had wanted  
to make sure the new reports on the accident that the board had written up in accordance with his  
testimony had replaced his falsified ones. They hadn't. Instead, both sets of reports appeared  
side-by-side in the database, a painfully direct confirmation of one Thomas Eugene Paris's deceit.  
Moreover, the reports were linked directly to the Regiment's flight record archive where the name  
'Thomas Eugene Paris' appeared enough times to indicate that the same individual who had  
knowingly falsified formal reports about the death of a comrade also held almost every speed,  
agility, and precision flight record in the books. In light of that agonizingly candid dichotomy,  
that tormenting testament to the Fall of the House of Paris, Tom had not been able to visit the  
database again.

Until now.

He had simply accessed the Storm files. He had told himself that he simply did not have  
the time to muck around the accident report or flight record archives. True as that was, he knew  
he simply could not face seeing his original report denying responsibility next to his sworn  
affidavit which claimed complete responsibility both for the accident and for the subsequent  
cover-up. And he did not want to call up the records archive - not because he was afraid  
someone had beaten his records... but because he was afraid that someone had not. An irrational  
part of him hated those records... they were testament to what Tom Paris once was, what he had  
forfeited... and just how far he had fallen.

As soon as he had finished transferring the files to the conference lounge - and it had been  
a trial to do so: the files were encrypted in typical Regiment-eyes-only fashion and because he had  
no desire to go through the entire identification process again in front of the senior staff, he had  
had to trick the database into thinking he was using it for personal research and was transferring  
the data to his own personal terminal - he flipped the Captain's device off and sat back in her  
chair.

He had only a few minutes before he would have to present his extensive knowledge of  
the Storm phenomenon to the senior staff.

He consoled himself that no one but the Captain had the clearance to actually, concretely  
connect the accident to the Storm. They would figure it out, of course, annoyingly intelligent  
bunch that they were. Harry would try to ease into a conversation about it and B'Elanna  
wouldn't even try to bring it up until after she had failed to hack into the Regiment database. But  
neither of them would know the right questions to ask once the conversation started... neither one  
of them would even know where to begin.

The Captain would. She would never initiate the conversation, though. She would make  
sure he knew that she knew and allow him to come to her on his own terms. She had said 'If you  
just did what I think you just did...' after he had successfully crossed the Storm threshold with  
Voyager. There was simply no way she could know the true extent of what he had done... but  
the fact that she had known something significant had happened for him, as a person, was more  
than he had expected. She knew something, though it could not be too much, and she had  
made sure he'd known it. What he did not know, though, was if he would take her up on that  
invitation or not.

There was a certain comfort in independence, in being completely autonomous. He could  
lie to himself for the rest of his life in the sanctuary of his own deluded self-sufficiency.

But the Captain would never let him lie to her.

He wasn't sure if he was ready for that.

But neither was he ready to expose his past like some kind of splayed-open post-sacrifice  
animal carcass to the senior staff and he had to do that.

Taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, he gained his feet and walked to the door.  
He paused right before the trigger mechanism, uneasiness warring with his acknowledgment of his  
duty... but he forced himself into motion once more.

"Quantum sufficiat," he reminded himself again.

Tom had always enjoyed long shuttle trips. As the child of an active, high-ranking  
Starfleet officer, he and the rest of his family had oftentimes had the luxury of hopping on the  
nearest Starfleet vessel to rendezvous with their absent patriarch. While Tom, at such a young  
age, had not been permitted to actually fly the transport vessels, he and his sisters had always been  
granted relatively exclusive usage of a holodeck. In retrospect, it was no doubt to keep them out  
of the Captain's hair. But in any case, once he had chased his sisters out of the holodeck and into  
the arboretum or something - they had never quite trusted him to fly them around in a holographic  
shuttle - he had generally occupied his time programming his own shuttle. He usually had more  
freedom on those trips than he did on Earth... and holodecks were so much more versatile than  
flight simulators. Everything he knew of holo-programming, a hobby of his, had originated during  
those rendezvouses.

His father had not been particularly thrilled to know that his six-year-old son had been  
practicing Yeager Loops on those holodecks... and even less enchanted with the fact that Tom  
had programmed four members of the Admiralty as his flight team. The Captain of that first ship,  
impressed with Tom's ability even as a child to catch what he called the 'essence of  
Necheyevness', had transferred the files to Paris's ship for Owen's perusal. Tom had been  
grounded both for trying a Yeager Loop alone - and only after several runs had he actually been  
able to successfully complete one - and for holoprogramming the Admiralty.

It was only a superficial punishment, of course, for Owen Paris, having recognized and  
appreciated his son's abilities at holoprogramming - and that was far more safe for a child his  
age than attempting precision flight maneuvers - had assigned Tom the formidable task of  
recreating the bridge of his ship on the holodeck. Tom, armed with the knowledge that his father  
needed this program from him, had spent essentially every spare moment working on it. And  
Owen Paris, though the suggestion had only been meant to keep the precocious boy occupied and  
away from his precision flight squadron, had eventually used it as a tactical training program.

As he had gotten older and been recruited by the Academy while still in high school, Tom  
had been allowed more frequently in the more sensitive portions of the transport vessels. And real  
Starfleet vessels were so much more real than holographic ones.

So Tom tended to associate long trips with fairly good memories.

Which was generally a good thing, because that was all he had to amuse himself with  
during the almost intolerably long trip to the Colonis system.

Korin Elyss, looking as cool and collected after having spent nearly twelve hours at the  
helm after leaving Earth, was not the most gifted of conversationalists. For the first few hours of  
the trip, Tom had plied her with questions regarding their craft. He had never before seen such a  
sleek, responsive little shuttle... his fingers were just itching to take such a magnificent craft up for  
a spin.

"It is called a Runner," she had explained in that succinct, no-nonsense voice of hers.  
"Specially designed for the Regiment by Commander Craven, it is equipped with ultra-  
aerodynamic contours, retractable nacelles, parametallic hull plating, and a maximum cruising  
speed of warp nine point three five. It is designed for long-term, short-term, atmospheric, and  
precision flying."

Tom was in love. "And this is what you fly in the Regiment?" he had asked.

"We fly everything in the Regiment," she had replied nonchalantly. "We are trained to be  
completely proficient in every spacecraft that has been used since the advent of warp technology."  
She had shrugged then, adding, "The Runners are used for special training."

And then they had lapsed into silence. He had attempted to engage her in conversation  
several times since, but her answers were predictably short, brusque, and to-the-point. Nothing  
more. It was almost like talking to the computer.

So he instead occupied his time watching her. He admitted that a small portion of him, the  
juvenile part that was curious to know if there was something more engaging underneath her icy  
exterior, wanted to stare at her long enough to bait a rise out of her. His greater interest, though,  
was learning how to fly that incredibly piece of machinery.

She controlled the Runner with a gentle dexterity that Tom could fully appreciate. A  
pilot's hands, the way they moved over a console, said a lot about the pilot's skill. Korin's fingers  
moved lightly over the illuminated board, both supple and strong, confident in every movement.  
Each individual motion was simultaneously quick, almost reflexive in speed, and yet perfectly  
calculated for accuracy. She did not waste her attention on menial activities either; even as her  
fingers performed basic diagnostics crucial to the operation of the vessel, her mind was apparently  
occupied in modifying a flight path to circumvent a warring system.

It was beautiful to watch.

She worked with a singular focus that Tom had never before seen in a Starfleet officer.  
Everything operated around her in perfect sync like a symphony orchestra responding to the  
calculated directions of a master conductor. The harmony, the simple consonance of every  
individual component, was exquisite.

And Tom, rendered breathless by the sheer purity of such total, unequivocal cohesion,  
could only pray that he too would learn to create such perfection.

"It's time," Korin said abruptly, her voice sounding strangely melodious, accompanied by  
the complex counterpoint of the Runner's operations.

"Time for what?" Tom couldn't help but speak at a near-whisper, loathe to ruin the  
perfection unfolding around him.

"For you to fly."

Tom blinked. Rationality beat down the instant surge of hopeful excitement that coursed  
through him. "I've never flown a Runner before," he reminded her.

"You've watched me for forty-five minutes now," she countered.

He couldn't allow her to think that, even if it cost him the chance to get to fly such an  
incredibly lithe little shuttle. "I stopped watching you a while ago," he admitted.

"And what were you doing instead?"

He cleared his throat, unsure if he should admit to something as fanciful as listening to the  
complete flawlessness of smooth, calculated operations. "I was... listening," he hedged.

She smiled then, a true smile, which, given her usually stoic mien, startled Tom; she  
understood! The gentle empathy of such a genuine smile was almost as beautiful as the harmony  
she created around her. But she immediately clamped down on the expression, as if ashamed of  
it, and he had an irrational wish then to make her smile again.

"Listening is better," was all she said. "I have constructed a basic flight plan. You are  
free to modify it as need be."

Tom knew he could fly the Runner. And he wanted to. Oh, gods, did he want to. But it  
was his place to make sure his superior knew of his limitations... every cadet knew that. "Are you  
sure my inexperience won't-?"

She barely afforded him a glance as she interrupted him. "There is no place for modesty in  
the Regiment," she informed him. "We both know you can fly this. It will not involve any  
precision maneuvers. You must familiarize yourself with her layout during this trip because by  
oh-eleven-hundred you will be expected to begin your precision training."

Oh-eleven-hundred? It was oh-three-hundred at the moment and they were not expected  
to reach the Colonis system for another four hours. By then, Tom would have been awake for  
twenty-six hours. And he had no illusions that he would be allowed to spend the four hours  
between their arrival and his precision training sleeping.

It was exhilarating.

And he was willing to bet that the Regiment didn't check for perfect linens either.

So as Korin moved away, he took her seat, relishing the sensation of being at a helm  
again. A real helm; not a simulated one. He carefully ran his hands over the console, just getting  
a feel for this girl's quirks, and brought up Korin's flight plan. Basic. Safe. Nothing to worry  
about... nothing particularly interesting either. But in eight hours, he would be doing something  
much more engaging. He could handle the mundane for the moment.

And besides... mundane in this beauty was more bewitching than running non-sanctioned  
maneuvers in any simulator.

"Statistically," Korin was saying, "one rookie destroys an average of two point one  
Runners by the end of their first semester in the Regiment. Commander Craven and I expect  
better from you."

"Why?" Tom was genuinely curious. He hoped she did not mistake it for false modesty;  
she had already made her opinion on that quite clear and he had no desire to completely alienate  
her before even beginning his training.

"He's been watching you for a long time, Cadet," she said after a moment. "And you  
were assigned to me two years ago, right after the commander discharged me from the care of my  
own advisor. I've been studying you since."

Tom, unsure whether he should be abhorred by such flagrant disregard for his privacy or  
flattered by the fact that he had been Korin's personal assignment for one and a half more years  
than he had even been in the Academy, asked merely, "Learn anything interesting?"

He did not expect his overly stoic companion to rise to his obliquely-stated challenge so  
her answer came as a surprise to him. "Quite," she said with what could have been interpreted as  
a playful quirk of her eyebrow if Tom thought for a moment she had a playful bone in her body.  
"A little over a year ago... your father was out in the Icarus on a four-week mission... your  
mother and sisters were in France for your eldest sister's piano competition. You were alone in  
your family's home in the Berkeley Hills, perfecting your entrance project." The eyebrow inched  
closer to her hairline. "You went to downtown Berkeley for one of the street fairs... in direct  
violation of your mother's standing orders, I might add. You met a young woman there; you  
invited her back to your house, ostensibly to get out of the rain." And here her lips twitched as if  
she were struggling not to give in to the temptation to smile. "And by seventeen-hundred hours,  
you had presented her with more than just your mother's apple pie."

Tom opened his mouth to say something, anything... and instead found himself sitting  
there with his mouth hanging open. He realized at some level how ridiculous he must look, but he  
could not quite reconcile the fact that Korin knew of that particular escapade. Moreover, he  
could not understand why she would need to know it.

And for godsakes, that was fucking personal.

"It is general knowledge that your mother makes exceptionally good apple pie," Korin  
continued blithely.

"Mind explaining to me why all that is important, Korin?" he asked her, deliberately using  
her surname instead of her rank as a good rookie probably should.

"You should always know who makes the best desserts," she answered matter-of-factly.  
"It makes Starfleet luncheons so much more palatable when you know what to avoid. Did you  
know that Admiral Janeway's wife's caramel brownies sealed the treaty with the Himideans?"  
She raised an eyebrow in his general direction. "Those caramel brownies certainly won you over,  
didn't they?"

How in the hell-?

"That's not what I asked," he muttered. And, as if having his entire personal life splayed  
open for Korin's leisurely perusal wasn't bad enough, there was a damned asteroid belt coming up  
on sensors. Damned flight plan.

"Seventeen is a rather late age to lose one's virginity, particularly given your  
unimpeachable social skills," she said coolly, as if she were reciting the results of the latest  
diagnostic. "And the fact that you chose a casual acquaintance over a more stable relationship is  
also indicative of other forces at work. Furthermore, the fact that you chose an older woman of  
completely different bearings - artist, was she? - speaks to your disenchantment with your current  
lifestyle."

Tom didn't know where to start with that. "I beg your pardon?" was all he could come up  
with. He changed the flight plan half-heartedly to avoid the asteroids... but he was almost  
tempted to let the Runner be smashed to smithereens rather than continue this particularly grisly  
conversation.

"You began at the Academy a little over half a year later." She glanced over at him.  
"Your recruitment was already official by then."

Tom was flabbergasted. "Surely you aren't telling me that it was the manner in which I  
lost my virginity that convinced you to recruit me?" he asked, dumbfounded.

She was apparently enjoying the conversation far more than he was. "Of course not," she  
said almost cheerfully. "We would never have recruited you if you couldn't fly."

He was back to sitting there with his mouth hanging open like some Denebian flytrap,  
carefully monitoring the Runner's systems because it was the only thing he could quite remember  
how to do.

"I can't believe that's actually important," he muttered sullenly, unsure if he was more  
uncomfortable with the fact that his private life was apparently not-so-private or that Korin so  
easily knew the details.

"Actually, to tell you the truth..." She settled down into the chair next to him and  
retrieved a PADD to review. "It wasn't all that important."

"Then why the hell did you bring it up?" Tom exploded. At this point, he was feeling  
downright naked under her scrutiny.

She shrugged daintily and replied honestly, "I was just curious to know if you could  
modify the flight plan to circumvent that asteroid belt while holding a rather uncomfortable,  
wholly distracting conversation."

He barely refrained from letting his jaw hang slack yet again. "So why, if it isn't all that  
important, did you go to all the trouble of finding out all the little details?"

"It was my job," she replied nonchalantly. She shrugged. "You did surprise me, though.  
I was relatively sure you'd go for the other sister."

More riddles. "What other sister?" he asked, giving in to his curiosity and quite sure that  
he was going to regret it.

That quirked eyebrow was back; was that her version of laughter? "Surely you are aware  
that it was Admiral Edward Janeway's younger daughter who seduced you?"

In for a strip of latinum, in for a bar. "I actually never learned her last name," Tom replied  
candidly, using his best cavalier tone, "but I'll take your word for it, since you seem to know  
everything else." He thought for a moment. "She didn't seem very Starfleet. I woould never  
have pegged her as the daughter of an admiral."

"That, I'm sure, was the deciding factor," said Korin in an peremptory tone that served  
only to annoy Tom. How the hell would she know what the 'deciding factor' had been  
anyway? "However, aside from being the daughter of an admiral, her older sister is your father's  
protege."

Tom forced a shrug and a smooth, "I sure know how to pick 'em, eh?"

"Everything happens for a reason," Korin said, unruffled.

Tom, still somewhat spiteful about the conversation he had just endured, leered, "Like the  
fact that two vastly attractive people like ourselves are alone in a rather spacious cockpit with  
four hours to kill?"

She glanced up at him over the top of the PADD. "Almost everything," she amended  
coolly, then returned her attention to the data.

Tom had to grin at that.

They did not speak again until they reached the Colonis system. For some reason, the  
silence of that last leg of the trip did not bother Tom in the same way it had irked him before.  
Perhaps it was the fact that he had, beneath his fingers, perfect control of one of the most  
beautiful crafts he had ever seen, let alone piloted. He could have flown her forever...

Except for the unfamiliar mass of swirling color that loomed across the viewscreen.

"Korin?" he prompted his companion.

She glanced up from the PADD for the first time in four hours. "All stop," she said  
calmly.

Tom, completely unfamiliar with any spatial phenomena fitting this description, was  
concerned by her seeming indifference; she, however, had apparently been expecting this mass.

"Korin to Craven. We have arrived at the Storm. Should I prepare for the crossing or  
should we head straight to base?"

"Estimated time until next burst?" came Craven's voice over her communicator.

Korin studied the image on the viewscreen for a long moment while Tom studied her.  
"Approximately five minutes, sir."

"Prepare for the modifications. I'll be out shortly. Craven out."

Korin immediately began her preparations. "Watch carefully," she instructed, her  
attention fully directed on the console before her. "This is your only time to observe this. I will  
be taking you out for your first crossing tomorrow morning and from then on you will be a  
participant. You will be expected to duplicate these procedures then."

"Yes, sir," Tom said crisply, programming his console to display exactly what Korin was  
doing across the cockpit.

She explained briskly what she was doing as she went. "What you see before you is  
lovingly referred to as a Storm. It is a phenomenon unknown elsewhere in the galaxy."

"It's so beautiful," he whispered, awed by the majesty unfolding before him.

"It's dangerous." Her voice was clipped, professional, as she prepared for the crossing.

"I've never seen anything like it before."

She smiled at him then, oh so faintly, as if she were remembering her own first experience  
with the Storm three years earlier. "And you never will again, Tom." She immediately tapped  
down her nostalgia, though, and said crisply, " If you will note, it is wreaking havoc on our  
sensors."

Tom did as she asked... and blanched at the complex data stream flowing across his  
screen. "You're going to fly blind through that thing?"

"Yes," she said, working her console at a furious pace. "Navigation inside the Storm is  
entirely intuitive, though relatively safe given that there are no other foreign bodies within it at the  
same time. It is actually penetrating the outer framework of the Storm that is both intuitive and  
dangerous. As such, it requires two individuals. The main goal of the modification is to create a  
threshold through which we can bypass the disruptions of the outer framework and thus access  
the eye of the Storm. Do you understand so far?"

She was speaking incredibly quickly. She had said something about five minutes until a  
burst... Tom did not know exactly what a burst was, but he felt a knot of apprehension form in  
his stomach anyway. He swallowed it with some difficulty. "Yes."

She continued so quickly that she very nearly overrode him. "We create this threshold by  
combining anti-protons and a photon torpedo."

Tom blinked. "How exactly do you manage to control that kind of explosion? Surely you  
need dilithium if you want to regulate it into a manageable corridor?"

Korin nodded in approval. "Excellent. This, then, is the order of events, Cadet: Pilot One  
will first suspend normal shield frequency modulation... you'll learn why in Basics; Pilot Two will  
emit a zero point four anti-proton burst between seventy and a hundred meters from the forward  
hull... actual distance depends on how much time you have until the Storm gives a burst; one  
second later, Pilot One will emit seven-hundred-and-fifty parts per million dilithium gas in a two-  
second compressed stream with plasma from the injectors as a base to the same coordinates as the  
anti-proton burst; as soon as Pilot Two registers what will appear to be a wormhole, he will fire a  
single photon torpedo to the same coordinates which should be within five meters of the  
'wormhole's' mouth. Do you understand?"

"Yes; we have just created what should be a temporarily stable corridor through the  
Storm," Tom replied.

Korin was apparently too busy to affirm that. "At this point, standard Red Alert protocols  
should be suspended: we will need to drop our shields upon entering the threshold."

Tom didn't like the sound of that. "We drop the shields?" he repeated, not quite sure he  
had heard correctly.

"Once the torpedo has been fired and the shields have been dropped," she continued,  
either oblivious to or completely ignoring his hesitation, "Pilot Two will have between one and  
two seconds to determine a course through the threshold. Accuracy at this point is imperative.  
There is an emergency evac station in the eye of the Storm, and it is the duty of Pilot One to  
activate and maintain emergency transporters, but the transporters are not able to pierce the  
interference from the Storm for any kind of reliable lock until you are almost entirely in the eye.  
Do you understand?"

"Yes, except..." Tom paused.

Korin glanced up at him impatiently. "What?"

"Can you please tell me why the hell you do this?"

"Because we could."

Tuvok was the first to speak after Paris's reflective answer, observing, "An illogical  
reason for such a hazardous practice."

Paris cleared his throat. "Things were never particularly logical in the Regiment, Tuvok,"  
he said.

"A secret flight school?" Chakotay sounded dubious. "Why exactly would Starfleet - of  
all things - maintain that kind of facility?"

Paris turned to answer Chakotay, but Tuvok overrode him. "You have referred to covert  
operations as a particular duty of the Regiment, Mr. Paris," the Vulcan noted. "Academy  
graduates are necessarily called upon to engage in covert operations with no additional training,  
particularly during times of crisis. Perhaps you can enlighten us as to why the Regiment itself is  
covert when the Academy is not."

"The purpose of the Regiment isn't just covert operations, Tuvok," Paris began. "It's  
about pure flight training and-"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute... could you explain the creation of the threshold one more  
time for me?" B'Elanna Torres interrupted, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Photon torpedoes  
themselves are matter/antimatter explosives. What exactly is the purpose of the anti-protons?"

"Look, B'Elanna, don't take this the wrong way, but it takes years of experience to  
understand Storms," Paris said tiredly. "The sensors are useless, remember? All the data we have  
on Storms are from first-hand observation from Regiment pilots and-"

"If the Regiment is simply a flight training institute, Mr. Paris, why is it so highly  
classified?" Tuvok asked.

"Theoretically, Lieutenant Torres," Seven of Nine spoke up, "the anti-protons would react  
with the matter of the Storm, creating a fissure. The fissure would then be stabilized by the  
dilithium gas stream such that the photon torpedo would then, upon detonation, widen the fissure  
such that a vessel would be able to traverse the distance."

"The Maquis received intelligence that there was more than just a flight training facility in  
the Colonis system," Chakotay said.

Paris dropped his head into his palms, barely noticing the Captain's furrowed brow as she  
glanced over at him. Maybe he could make like a Solurian ostrich and bury his head in the table...  
let the senior staff debate amongst themselves. They apparently didn't need him to mediate.

"Since when did Starfleet have spies?" Kim wanted to know.

"There is one second between the anti-proton emission and the dilithium gas... the  
dilithium arrives only after the initial explosions have taken place," Torres snapped to Seven.  
"How exactly do you keep the initial explosions contained?"

"How else would they keep ahead of everyone else, Harry?"

"Commander Chakotay, please enlighten me as to how exactly the Maquis, with their  
under-developed intelligence system, could possibly have known about the existence of the  
Regiment."

"If the outer framework of the Storm possesses a rigid structure, the anti-protons might  
react locally, negating the need for the moderating effects of dilithium."

"I just thought Starfleet was supposed to be 'higher' than espionage."

"I didn't say the Maquis knew about the Regiment, Tuvok. I said we received intelligence  
that there was something else more than just a mere flight institute there... our reports actually  
said a medical facility."

"If the Storm has any kind of rigid outer structure, Seven, then blasting a hole in it with  
antimatter would theoretically cause whatever the rigid structure contains to spill out!"

"Commander Chakotay, need I point out that there is no medical facility in the Colonis  
system?"

"Commander, the only medical facility anywhere near the Colonis system is the one at  
Caldik Prime-"

"Enough!"

Silence descended over the room... whether it was from the Captain's exasperated  
command or Harry Kim's inadvertent slip, Paris couldn't say. He hadn't actually expected anyone  
to make the connection to the name 'Caldik Prime' until well after the briefing, after they had had  
time to reflect back on the conversation. Leave it to the damned Maquis intelligence...

... who had actually seen evidence of the Regiment's base... even if they had mistaken it  
for a documented medical facility a system away.

Craven would just love that.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the Captain began, quieting her own voice to match the  
decreasing chaos in the room, "if you have specific questions for Mr. Paris, feel free to ask. He is  
equally free to decline." And here she glanced over at him, no doubt to make sure he understood  
that she was not about to let him be bullied into giving any details he did not otherwise wish to  
part with. "But this will not degrade into a circus. Understood?"

Complete silence ensued. Paris had expected that from everyone except Seven... he had  
genuinely believed that she would bring up those two forbidden words: Caldik Prime. But she  
didn't, instead just sitting quietly across from him with a somewhat perturbed look on her face.

Harry took the lead then, probably just to break the silence. Paris knew how he hated  
long, uncomfortable silences; Paris had taken to filling any possibly awkward silences between  
them himself just to avoid having to watch Harry fidget.

"So is the Delta Flyer a Runner?" he asked. "The Runner you described seems to have a  
lot in common with the Flyer."

A safe question; Paris had no doubt that Harry had spent the few moments of silence  
trying very diligently to come up with something that unthreatening as he simultaneously  
attempted to think of an equally unthreatening way of broaching the dreaded Caldik Prime  
subject later on. "A cousin of sorts," he answered. "I drew up her original specs years ago, based  
on both my Academy entrance project and the bits and pieces I liked from the Regiment's  
Runners." He shrugged. "She would have made an acceptable Regiment craft if I'd built her in  
the Alpha Quadrant. As it is, Tuvok's shielding design and the Borg technology put her far above  
par."

Silence again fell over the group. Paris wondered if direct confrontation of the illicit  
subject could possibly be worse than the unasked questions coagulating in the stagnating stillness.

Tuvok spoke almost reluctantly then as if he were feeling compelled to fill the silence.  
"This Storm phenomenon, Mr. Paris," he said. "What dangers does prolonged exposure pose?"

"Once you're inside, you're fine so long as no one else is wandering around in here too,"  
Paris replied.

Chakotay balked. "And what if someone is wandering around in here too?" he  
demanded.

"I set the proximity sensors," Harry spoke up.

"Will those actually work in here?" asked B'Elanna.

Paris shrugged. "At a distance of, oh... fifty meters, yeah."

"Mr. Paris -" the Captain began almost dangerously.

"The helm will automatically kick in to quarter impulse if the proximity sensors go off,"  
Paris reassured her.

"And getting out is easier than getting in?" B'Elanna sounded dubious.

"Yeah." Paris couldn't offer anything more detailed. No one asked him to.

The Captain did not speak until it became blatantly clear that no one had anything else to  
ask besides the one overhanging question that no one wished to voice. She did not wait for  
someone to get the courage to ask it. "Mr. Paris," she said, "as our resident expert, your task is  
to teach Ensign Kim, Lieutenant Torres, and Seven everything you know about Storms."

Paris blanched. "Everything?"

"Everything?" Kim repeated with a rather unenthusiastic furrowing of his brow.

The Captain smiled at Paris. "I have no doubt that the Regiment is home to the most  
accomplished pilots in the Alpha Quadrant... but Voyager is home to the most accomplished  
team of thinkers in half the galaxy." She glanced around the table. "I want to know what a  
Storm is... what exactly it does... why it does what it does..." Her lips curved into a half-smile of  
challenge. "And you have three days to do it."

"But, Captain-" Kim began to protest.

"That's impossible," Torres said. "We all saw what it did to the sensors."

The Captain didn't appear fazed by their objections. "So was Warp Ten. Quantum  
sufficiat, people. Dismissed."

Paris didn't get up with the others. The Captain didn't question it.

"Captain, I am-" he started.

"- perfectly capable of doing this," she overrode him effortlessly, folding her arms over her  
chest.

He didn't pause to think, saying only, "I'm not taking anyone out there, Captain."

"Why not?" was all she asked in a quiet, curious voice.

"You know why not."

She looked at him carefully. He could almost feel her determinedly pushing her way  
through his defenses, right to his core. He should feel violated. He didn't.

"As the resident expert, it is up to you whether or not your research will require actual  
shuttle interaction with the Storm," she said finally.

He released a breath he had not known he had been holding. "Thank you, Captain."

"Don't thank me yet, Mr. Paris," she said quietly.


End file.
